


You'll Be The Life Of Me

by Tammany



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Demons and Angels, M/M, hedonism and sensuality, physicality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 10:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19129990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: So many fine people over here writing all the stories I would write. Glorious.This is just a little thing, as Crowley stumbles helpless through a world where His Angel is so tempting in his physicality. It's not so much dirty as suggestive.





	You'll Be The Life Of Me

The thing is…the thing is.   
The thing is you don’t expect a “best friend” when you’re a demon. You don’t expect a friend. Hell is being surrounded by hateful people about whom you do not give a rat’s ass, and who do not give a rat’s ass about you.

Any friend Crowley did get would be “best.” But—

“What about oysters,” Aziraphale says, face as sweet as a Cavalier King Charles spaniel.

Crowley’s a demon. He considers it.

All right. If oysters were horrible, then it would be just one more drop of eternal torment. If it was wonderful—and Aziraphale is making little dribbly sounds and sighing gustily, so maybe it is wonderful—then Crowley could at least claim to have been subversive toward Heaven’s dark will for demons, and so that’s one bit of Hell's rebellion taken care of. Right?

Oysters turn out to be physical.

Physical is one of the elements of demondom that come hard for demons. They were born angels, and when they rebelled against Heaven it wasn’t because they loved God’s far too earthy, physical mortal creation. Humans—they’re physical. Demons? Not so much. Which is why apparently they are obliged to tempt humans into things that come naturally to humans—and not so naturally to demons. Sex. Gluttony.

An oyster tastes like sex and gluttony and the ocean-stink of a rocky shore at low tide: rotting fish and brine and seaweed parching under the sun and amazing things hidden in rock pools and clean wind off the vast waves beyond. Raw, an oyster goes down like ice-cold oceanic snot. Cooked in milk it turns creamy, like a funky, dark bread pudding, swimming in briny broth that gives Crowley his first involuntary, purely recreational hard-on—not an assigned task, or an angry act of deviance, but a reflexive “OMG” response that clenches his stomach and arse and sends him scrambling for a cup just to hold the liquid desire.

“What’s in this?”

“Oysters, top-milk, a scrape of onion, salt, pepper. Minced parsley. Not much else,” Aziraphale says, but his mild blue eyes are shining with joy, and Crowley can see that he’s arse-over-teakettle happy his friend likes the treat.

Aziraphale loves Earth. He loves the Earthy things Crowley experiences in anger and resentment, because he’s obliged. Demons are supposed to be sensualists, right? Or at least, to trick humans into sensuality. Because God, in her ineffability, created a physical world and physical animals to live in that world—and expects them to reject all that for ethereal purity.

Ineffable.

Totally ineffable.

And there’s Aziraphale, who can be lured into danger with the offer of a new taste sensation.

“Coffee.”

All right. Coffee. After a while Crowley agreed: one of God’s better creations.

Then tea.

And then? Hot chocolate.

This from a deity who’d already cleared the divine decks with wine and beer.

Crowley tried to be sufficiently sullen and stroppy about it all to maintain his demonic credits. But he’d come to look forward to Aziraphale’s little hedonistic voyages of adventure. Crepes? Who knew you could take a bit of milk, flour, and egg and wrap it around anything—anything at all—and have something classy and delicious in under half an hour?

“You’re a terrible angel,” Crowley pointed out, one evening, having been introduced to cabbage soup. He’d entertained modest hopes for the evening. The soup sounded so unpromising. Maybe, this once, he’d come out without his physicality stoked and his body downright libidinous for more sensation. Instead it had proved to be a pinnacle of vegan cooking, fit to satisfy for days, drenched in green herbs and dried fruits and compelling splashes of tamarind.

Too good to believe. He’d smacked his lips, and said, resentfully, “Really. You’re a crap angel, Angel. It’s like you like this world.”

Aziraphale, leaning back in his chair, tummy clearly stuffed full, smirked. “Well, yes. Aren’t we supposed to? Love it and praise it and all that?” He stirred, as if seeking a slightly less stuffed position. “Isn't that what got your lot damned? Refusal to love what She made?”

“Well. I suppose. But come on! We’re all critics. It _could_ have been better. She didn’t earn her vision, now, did she? She didn't successfully sell her creation." Crowley felt the hipster sark was a bit damaged by his final effort to salvage one last spoon of soup from the already dry bottom of the china soup dish, licking his lips as he did so.

Aziraphale studied Crowley, amusement glimmering in his eyes, along with tender affection. “Right. So I suppose you’ll turn down the burnt-caramel flan I have set aside for dessert?” His pink tongue flickered, already lapping away sticky sweet creamy, dense flan.

Crowley groaned.

When Crowley agreed to flan, he slipped out into the kitchen, reflexively patting Crowley's shoulder as he went by...

That was another thing. All that happy physicality Aziraphale displayed!

He was a touchy-feely little thing.

Crowley tried so hard to pretend he hated it. But the truth was, ever since that vast white wing had arched over him as they stood on the walls of the garden, to shield a sorry demon from the rain pelting down…

Crowley had felt his Angel’s warmth—of heart, and spirit, and body. He’d felt loved and safe—a feeling he had not felt since the day he’d looked up and realized that Heaven was much farther away than he’d recalled it being, and that his wings no longer felt up to flying that high.

He was a demon. Tormented with physicality, not blessed with it. And yet…

He and his angel have partaken of each other’s essences. Worn each other’s faces. Touched each other’s…

Souls? Did angels have souls? Did demons?

They toddled on together, closer and closer. And then one day, Aziraphale, touchy thing, physical thing, drew his best friend close, to keep him from the rain (and London is so often rainy…)

And his best friend, utterly corrupted by the divine, leaned into the embrace, and pressed his face against his best friend’s fleecy hair, so…physical.

Sexy as oyster stew on a cold day, sprinkled with just a dusting of fine-minced parsley.

They clung tighter, and Aziraphale, with a charmed, twitterpated smile, brushed his lips over his demon’s.

“Heaven,” Crowley swore, helplessly. “Heaven, heaven, and all the little angels rise up high. You’ll be the life of me, you know. I’m entirely ruined as a demon.”

Aziraphale giggled. “Then we are ruined together,” he admitted, and then found them a warm doorway to huddle in and snog, as the rain pelted down as hard as it had on the day Adam and Eve left the garden.

 

 


End file.
